


falling and lonely, cry out (will you fix me up? will you show me hope?)

by dearparker



Series: whumping peter parker like it’s a full time job [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Amputation, BAMF Peter Parker, Dialogue Light, Escape, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Hydra Peter Parker, Kidnapped Peter Parker, Medical Experimentation, Medical Inaccuracies, Memories, Mild Blood, Past Torture, Peter Parker Needs a Break, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Peter Parker has PTSD, Peter Parker is a Mess, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Self-Harm, an evil ass organization that’s on the rise, im a writer not a doctor, just for the sake of this (possible) series, kind of?, not steve or wanda friendly, this is fucked, tony bought the tower back bc peter gives him heart attacks and he needs to be there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:55:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24480889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearparker/pseuds/dearparker
Summary: Sam has his guns up already while he surveys the room and he instantly trains them on the new figure. They’re both silent for a few moments before the older man lowers his weapon. He follows suit, pockets his knife.”You’re a kid,” He says incredulously, “Jesus, what the hell did they do to you?”(or: peter runs into team cap as he escapes his captors)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Peter Parker & Sam Wilson, Peter Parker & Natasha Romanov, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: whumping peter parker like it’s a full time job [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1780081
Comments: 14
Kudos: 535





	falling and lonely, cry out (will you fix me up? will you show me hope?)

**Author's Note:**

> this is unedited! leave comments and kudos, especially if i should do a series or some shit
> 
> tumblr is dearparkr

  
When the world in front of him clears up after a few blinks, he’s aware of the cracks in the wall that remind him of spider webs. Whirring hums and a constant dry eye remind him of his new home.

A sensation of hot, sharp, and biting prickles crawl throughout his body and all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes. For a moment, he feels like he’s going to panic. Tremors start at the remembrance of cold surgical tables, bruises blossoming on his pale cheek, cold cell corners and the silent hallways.

But he’s on the cot in his cell, his black vest and knives hidden under him. He’s shirtless — the tiniest of scars visible on his chest and he’s shivering slightly.

Memories overcome him, the blurry image of a girl — _MJ,_ his mind supplies for him — waving goodbye with a soft smile. He’s overcome with excitement, his urge to do something lost as he blinks away the images before him.

He had wanted to do something, he remembers vaguely, a scream and then a grimy and sticky alley floor his cheek was forcefully pressed into.

Of course, all attempts of escape were fruitless as soon as someone plunged that needle into his neck. He had heard a scream, he had just wanted to _help_ , and when his blood turned cold, he was the one who screamed.

Muffled voices follow alongside bright lights, surgical tables and scalpels, and the _screams._ It hurt so much, everything did at that point, but when he tries to remember the life he had before, remember _more_ than just names and favorite colors, an excruciating jolt of agony washes over him.

He had started to forget, and he could barely remember MJ’s name. He’s hung on by a thread at this point.

The little things always stuck with him. Tony smelled like motor oil. May’s _Winnie The Pooh_ scrubs were his favorite as a kid. MJ practices box braids over winter break. Ned loved _Star Wars._ Mr. Delmar’s got a fluffy cat. Pepper Potts’ strawberry blonde hair.

January came along all too quickly. His cell had always been cold, but with the new season the chill settles inside him. It amplifies his aches — the way his back thrums painfully under the skin between his shoulder blades, and the gritting his bones make when he bends backwards.

He digs his finger so hard into the wall it cracks, and he drags it until it creates a tally. Thirty-seven days. He blinks through his haziness and his right eyelid twitches. The twitch had remained after the surgery and they took his eye. Left one, gave him a bionic eye in return.

Bionic eye, bionic. They took his left eye. Gave him a new one. The Doctor made a comment, ‘ _New year, new eye’,_ and then he’d been thrown back into his cell. It gives him headaches and it’s not one hundred percent, it’s dim and sometimes it’ll twitch almost, nothing compared to what his vision had been before.

Peter draws shapes into his skin-tight clothing and his metal arm whirs. They’d taken his arm first, nearly killed him then, blood steadily flowing onto the surgical table and he’d lost unconsciousness, but he survived.

For what it’s worth, he wished he hadn’t.

He drags his cold finger against his inner thigh. He traces Tony’s name. MJ’s and Ned’s. May’s with a big heart. Shivers run throughout his body.

Sometimes he’s overcome with random moments that remind him of his life before. _A metal arm that flies towards his face, but he catches it easily and the force behind it, the man looks shocked when he starts to talk._

It’s the only reason why he looks at his right arm and thinks it’s okay, decent. They’re the same in color, but his doesn’t run as smoothly. But there’s always room to improve.

On bad days, where he’s winded and teary eyed all throughout, he’s reminded of a confined space, dust in his lungs, and a voice ringing in his head. _If you’re nothing without that suit, then you shouldn’t have it._ It slips away from him until he’s surrounded by flames again and metal talons dig into his chest.

It leaves him breathless, choking on his own fear, and his Instructor would storm into the room, rouse him out of his cell and punch him so hard he’s dazed for the remainder of the day.

They’re training Peter to suppress his emotional reactions, training him to be faster, and so far he’s exhausted. His chest aches and his eye is dry.

He only cries during the procedures now. He bites his tongue during the hand-to-hand combat when his Instructor strikes him hard across the face. He’s stopped talking to the guards that drag him from his cell a while ago.

But as soon as that scalpel touches his pale skin, he’s a whimpering, gasping mess. He flinches. His inhales are sharp, and they turn into full blown sobs when they attempt to wipe his memory.

He remembers making a quip about Men In Black in the beginning, and his Instructor stabbed him in his thigh.

The Doctor strikes a certain fear through him that his Instructor can’t. Needles, scalpels, DNA samples, and the false reassuring comments.

He’s forced himself to focus every time the guards have come down here, a needle plunged into his neck and whatever drugs started to work in his system, and he’s got a good idea of the layout. They don’t have a clue.

Thirty-seven days, and he’s finally got a plan.

It’s barely a plan — he can barely even think through the thick fog in his mind — but he can’t afford to wait. He’s got to act now while he still _remembers_ why he needs to in the first place.

The building has three floors in total and they stretch on forever, chambers and locked cells on the second floor and the medical on the third. Brass knuckles mock him and there’s a blood stain on the third floor from when he’d been swiped across his abdomen by his Instructor.

A right, straight ahead should lead him straight to a narrow staircase. Three guards would escort him to and fro, otherwise the halls between cells remained deserted.

His vision blurs momentarily and he has to pause, jaw clenching involuntarily and his metal arm jolts as if it’s malfunctioning. It’s old and in desperate need of an update, but he’d rather have a metal arm than no arm at all. Maybe it’s the desperation of something akin to his old normal, having both arms.

A wave of nausea washes over him and his bionic eye blinks, and he can’t remember what he was thinking.

He starts to count.

Peter digs his metal finger into the flesh on his thigh, uncontrolled and his arm rigid until the fabric that spreads across his thighs rips and he’s crying out. Blood spurts and it coats his cold fingers, then he pulls away with gritted teeth.

Phantom pain makes itself known where his regular eye use to be, and the surgery had been sloppy. Barely done. Not enough anesthesia. When his locks fell down, clumped together on the cold floor, he couldn’t help but feel like it might be the final step in forgetting who he had been before.

He barely remembers yellow jackets and a girl telling him he was smart, his kind smile reflected back when walking past store windows with another girl with loose curly hair. Red and gold armor, a woman with red eyes that flung cars around an airport.

A boy with brown skin and wide eyes staring at him, his voice apprehensive and then there’s a woman, her long brown hair pulled into a messy bun as she points at him and the boy, _“Maybe put on some clothes,”_ and she leaves, her orange top seeming like a flash of light.

She’s the definition of warmth and she left in a hurry. He had smiled despite himself.

He can’t remember much, but the little things he sees before him, he’s thankful for.

_God, he misses... misses..._

He can’t remember yet. He will. Or at least he hopes he will, prays that this isn’t the time where he doesn’t remember at all.

He misses whoever brought that comfort and made him feel safe. A plethora of names flash before him and he feels a spark of warmth.

_May.. MJ... Ned.. Tony..._

It’s such a faint whisper in the back of his mind he begs to hear it again, a little louder, a little more clear just to help himself. Help himself wade through the fog and the thick swamps in his mind, he needs that hand to get him through the murky waters.

Nineteen minutes pass. He remembers his outline of a plan, the three floors of this building and he can distinctly locate seven heartbeats on the third floor.

Three heartbeats, familiar in their stutter, and it makes him groan, travel up the staircase.

Thumping footsteps sound in unison and he rolls his shoulders. His jaw pops and tingles race down his neck, but he braces himself.

For how much this institution, organization, _whatever_ , hounds on training, the guards are sloppy in their work. They carry their batons and think it’s enough to keep all these prisoners in line. Hell, they’ve tripped over the gear they have to wear.

If MJ were there, she’d speak on how organizations that rush to control the rhythm of the people often hire the most inexperienced and eager simply to fill in the slots.

His train of thought is disrupted when the door slam open. The smallest guard, who’s name was Jake, smirked instantly at the sight of him.

Then bumbled in _Dumb and Dumber_. Matt and Tex were their actual names, but they’re so unprofessional it hurts. In fact, Tex stumbles and drops his taser on the concrete.

It shatters on impact and suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. He opts to clench his jaw instead.

”A new day!” Jake’s smirk widens until he’s smiling and he crouches. His knees pop loudly and Matt snorts.

”I cannot wait —“

Red lights wash over them and a shrill alarm begins to blare throughout the building. Jake freezes instantly, brow furrowed, but it’s an opportunity that won’t go to waste.

Since Jake is so keen on invading personal space, Peter takes the chance to head butt him, and _hard._

Jake grunts loudly and falls back while he jumps to his feet, kicks the guard hard in the face to knock him unconscious then turns toward Matt and Tex. Their eyes are blown wide in shock and Tex scrambles to grab his baton.

Matt throws a sloppy punch and he easily dodges, landing hits to the guard’s abdomen and finally, his face and breaks his nose. Peter grabs his body before he hits the ground with a loud smack. Tex lunges forward, his jerk directed at his metal arm, and it pings painfully, but doesn’t dent.

Peter grunts in annoyance and grabs the baton, throwing it into Tex’s stomach hard enough the guard is left gasping. He takes him down with a kick to the face. The three guards are piled atop each other, bruised and unconscious, but there’s bigger matters at hand.

Escaping, for example. Also, figuring out who broke in into the facility. And stopping the door from closing completely because it’s about to.

Just before it closes, he shoves Matt’s limp body over and officially blocks the door using the man’s head. _Whatever, moving on_.

Peter tosses his meager blanket to the side and his vest stares up at him, the glint of metal catches his eye and he nearly smiles. He pulls the vest onto his bare chest, aiding the loose straps and the velcro grates his ears, and then he’s brushing his fingertips across the blades until they prick his fingers.

He smiles that time — it’s almost wicked, when he brushes his thumb across his blood and it smears, his heart seems to flutter.

He shakes his head minutely, focuses on the black combat boots and the beat up laces. They rise up past his ankles, and they’re so basic he’s sure he saw this on a clearance shelf at _Ross_ while Christmas shopping. Hell, MJ probably has a pair. They’re not as clunky as they look, and if needs be, he can run in them.

A heartbeat catches his attention, and whoever it belongs to is making their way up the stairs and he freezes, forcing himself to think through the haze.

 _“There’s some cells probably holding prisone — hostages — on the second floor...”_ The... Falcon? Sam Wilson? “ _Cap how long we got?”_

The response can’t be heard and Sam only grunts. The conversation ends there.

For a brief moment, no longer than a few seconds, images of a black man with wings — _“Is that stuff coming out of you?” —_ and red on his gear. It’s gone before he can focus too much on it, but it’s an explanation for the wonky superhero name that came to mind.

Peter swipes a knife off the cot discreetly, his heart begins to hammer against his ribs and his breath comes out in quick puffs. He grips the knife with his metal hand and exhales a heavy breath. He’s so tired, exhausted down to his core, and he doesn’t necessarily want to fight The Falcon again, but who’s side is he on?

With a silent prayer, he leaves the room. Sam has his guns up already while he surveys the room and he instantly trains them on the new figure. They’re both silent for a few moments before the older man lowers his weapon. He follows suit, pockets his knife.

”You’re a kid,” He says incredulously, “Jesus, what the hell did they do to you?”

He deflates slightly until he mumbles under his breath, his gaze averted momentarily.

A new figure stalks down the wide hall in a poised manner, and for a moment the three of them are flushed into darkness, the red flashes overhead.

Black Widow stands off to the side, assessing the situation with a quiet eye. She meets his gaze and her features are illuminated under the red.

Sam turns to her and she quirks her brow. The question is there, loud and clear, and Sam turns back with a conflicted expression.

They don’t know Peter, they can’t determine if he’s a threat, and maybe he is. He could barely get a grip on his strength before and learning how to do so all over again with a metal arm? A recipe for disaster.

Black Widow won’t just assume he’s not a threat simply because he’s a teenager, because his new look doesn’t exactly say _come give me some sugar._

Peter turns to Sam and his mouth quirks, a small upturn that had the older man silently tense up. A conversation comes to mind, old and punches thrown in between, but he feels that childish excitement again.

“Those wings carbon fiber?” He nods at the man in front of him.

Sam’s eyes flash with recognition and Black Widow simply smirks. Black Widow nods her head toward the staircase and Peter trails behind the two of them, his shoulders tense as he strains his senses. He can hear their heartbeats thudding steadily, and the smallest squeak comes from the bottom of their shoes.

Walking down the stairs leads them to the main floor where guards, doctors, and trainers are lying unconscious across the ground. Captain America stands over one doctor, his chest expanding and the beginnings of a beard show under the flashing red lights. Scarlet Witch stands off to his side, her eyes glowing red incessantly.

Captain America turns at the sounds of their shoes and his brow furrows at the sight of Peter. His mouth pinches together and Black Widow keeps walking right out the door, he follows with a disgruntled expression. Scarlet Witch cocks her head to the side at them before turning.

When they all get outside, the sun is starting to set behind rows of trees. He squints and stumbles after Sam blindly, who offers his arm.

Peter grips it with his metal hand until the pounding in his head decreases and he’s able to look up.

Sam nods and tugs him along cautiously, toward a black car that’s ready to zoom away, but before they get closer he begins to talk, “Cap is all sorts of stressed these days. It ain’t easy walking around all the time with a target on your back and the weight of strained relationships on your shoulders, y’know?”

Peter nods besides himself, because no, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t think he does anyway, everything hidden behind stabs of pain in his brain whenever he tries to dig for more. They approach the car.

The windows are tinted to the point where you could barely see inside, and the license plate has got tons of scrapes on it. Captain America sits in the passenger seat with a grunt, Scarlet Witch in the backseat with them.

Black Widow leans in through the car window and announces her departure, apparently meeting up with someone before officially turning in for the night. She spares him a glance.

The car starts, and it’s only then does he realize that the driver is the man with the metal arm _,_ but he has a different arm this time around. It’s sleek, black and it doesn’t jerk at all when he uses it to put the car in gear.

He can’t help himself when he leans forward to get a closer look, and Captain America glares. He’s not too worried at the moment though.

”Is that a _vibranium_ arm?” Peter asks. He wants to continue rambling, but he feels everyone’s eyes on him and he shrinks back a little.

The man blinks at the new voice talking to him, takes his eyes off the road for a moment, and his jaw loosens. He nods in confirmation but he doesn’t talk.

”Isn’t the only place to get vibranium —“ Peter cuts himself off as a wave of nausea washes over him and his bionic eye blinks, and he can’t remember what he was thinking.

His metal arm jerks forcefully, knocking into the man next to him who’s staring in concern. He clenches his jaw at the stabbing pain in his head, and he wants to apologize, but he can’t.

So instead he clenches his metal hand into a fist and pulls it close to his chest. The man in the passenger seat is staring at him with an apprehensive expression. The woman next to him looks ready to defend herself.

He doe... he doesn’t want to fight. He’s tired of it.

He can’t remember... the driver is looking at him, with an unreadable face, but the man’s body language is resigned.

“You gonna finish that sentence?” The man in the passenger seat says, eyebrows quirked.

”I-I don’t remember,” Peter stammers and his normal eye begins to produce tears.

Frustratingly so they fall down his cheeks, but he genuinely cannot remember at the moment. He was going to say something...

”What do you mean you can’t remember?” The woman grits her teeth, her pupils flash red.

”Wanda, lay off.” The man beside him scolds. He gives them all looks and they all turn back to their own business.

Tony smelled like motor oil.

May’s _Winnie The Pooh_ scrubs were his favorite as a kid.

MJ practices box braids over winter break.

Ned loved _Star Wars._

Mr. Delmar’s got a fluffy cat.

Pepper Potts’ strawberry blonde hair.

As time passes in the car, Peter repeats this mantra to himself as quietly as he can without attracting too much attention to himself, subconsciously covering his bionic eye with his hand. His metal arm, the fingers still coated with blood, dig into his sternum almost painfully.

Names come back to him, and the memories follow shortly after. It’s taken him longer to remember this time around, more than thirty minutes into the drive and he finally remembers his half-formed question towards the driver.

The whirring of his metal arm is a constant, soft enough it doesn’t assault his senses. He grunts a little.

Steve Rogers glances at him and his eyes are red-rimmed. The curve of his brows are lined with worry, sad eyes set upon the clunky metal arm, and there’s a small trail of blood on his cheek bone. No cuts remain.

It reminds him of the way he punctured his own skin with blunt metal fingers, the blood that seeped into the surrounding fabric, and he wonders distantly if it’s healed.

Peter brushes his cold fingers across the skin on his thigh, a sharp gasp audible and his vision whites out for a second. His jaw clenches and he can tell there’s new blood gushing by the dampness all over his thigh.

His hand is moved and there’s a voice in his left ear — _Sam_ , then there’s a cloth being pressed against his wound.

There’s commotion until the car rolls to a stop and the doors are swinging open. Sam unbuckles their seatbelts and he feels numb, allowing himself to be maneuvered until eventually there’s an arm being looped around his back.

He wonders if it’s Tony, but when he looks it’s Sam and the man in the driver’s seat.

He stumbles as they walk, only a few steps until he’s propped up on the trunk of the car. A bag is dropped on the ground in front of him.

City lights peak over the rooftops of buildings and slip onto the alley walls beside them. It reminds him of the day he was taken, changed indefinitely from that moment on, grimy floors and he thinks of a suit of red and gold armor.

It’s cold — the dark sky and temperatures that dropped when the sun fell out the sky. Metal glints in the dim remainder of light, and the man with a scruffy beard kneels in front of him. His gaze set upon the trickling blood, jaw clenched involuntarily, and then Sam and Scarlet Witch — _Wanda_ , step up behind him.

Sam stands with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders are only a little tense. His eyes are slightly squinted as he looks down the alley, probably on the lookout for police, really anyone that could give away their current location and his weight is balanced equally between both of his feet. There’s a large bruise on his wrist.

Wanda’s a different story, her hip jutted out and her eyes hard as she observes him. Like he’s the shit on the bottom of her shoes, and to be honest, he’s sort of feeling like that. Her magic — powers, dance and dip between each of her fingers, red mist circling her wrists. She could easily fall into a defensive stance, probably knock him out before he could jump to his feet.

It’s hauntingly beautiful, her magic, but his heart beats fast. She nearly smirks in return. Her face is shadowed by her hair, but he sees the upturn of her lips.

”Coast is clear. Nat’ll prolly be back in twenty minutes Bucky,” Sam sighs softly and it’s lost in the sounds of the city. He crosses his arms non-threateningly, “If you can, can you tell us about that organization?”

“I - I don’t know what they wanted,” Peter says weakly, “It was — there was a scream outside my school, so I went to help. Then I’m being drugged.”

He shivers slightly as Wanda questions, “What school do you go to?”

”Midtown Technology,” He responds.

”How long ago was that?” Sam asks.

”I’m — I don’t remember the exact date. It’s fuzzy,” He says and his vision blurs, “I can’t —“

”Anything that could help you remember?” The man kneeling in front of him asks, “The season? Clothes, people, time of day? What you were going to do?”

”Uh-Uh there was snow? MJ... MJ was going to practice box braids again. She always does over winter break,” He huffs, chest tight.

”So last year,” The man — _Bucky_ says, “It’s nearly February now.”

Peter reels momentarily, his breath hitches and he feels stunned. Electricity is coursing through his veins. He remembers the number thirty-seven, and he wonders briefly if he got it all wrong. If he missed a few days.

He looks over at Sam and his bottom lip quivers. His body aches, he longs for his Aunt May, longs for his old days.

Sam’s mouth presses into a firm line, shoulders slumping partially as he exhales a heavy breath. He doesn’t move, only quirks an eyebrow.

”I - I don’t know what they wanted,” He could hear his voice straining, “They kept — it always felt like I couldn’t breathe. I - I’m not sure if they were trying to - to take as much as they could over time. Sawed off my arm, took my eye.”

Eventually the tears fall, slip through the corners of his eye. Some trail down his cheeks or cling on to his lashes until they get too heavy and fall, a small splash on his bloody clothing.

Bucky looks disgruntled, a frown creased his face and his eyes seem a little distant, shoulders remaining taut. He seemed ready to snap almost.

”You don’t have to tell us anything you don’t want,” Sam speaks grimly, “Got anyone we could call?”

Peter shrugs, unsure if he should call his aunt or Tony. Something in him wants nothing more than to run straight to May, relish in the comfort of her hugs and smile lines, another part of him wants to run for the hills. His terror, anxiousness crawls throughout his back in hot prickles at the thought of her horrified expression when she sees what he’s become.

Or maybe, she’ll become sad. Doubt herself, because she’s faintly aware of his terrors already, what he’s faced and always googling things after midnight because he’ll get aches. He’ll be even more pressure of the curve of her back and this time he’s frightened her legs will give way.

First his parents, then Ben, now him. What if he’s the one that sweeps her off her feet and causes her to topple over from the weight of the pressure?

He glances at Bucky and wonders if the man ever thought the same, through the hard expression, if he ever cried for fear of what’s to come.

Peter has no clue what happened to Bucky — how the man got this way, what happened to him, but the image must not have been pretty. Blood, maybe a mangled mess and he wonders if Bucky was scared.

Finally, he shrugs his shoulders at Sam.

The man sighs and turns just as a new figure starts down the alley. He instantly squares his shoulders, knees bent the tiniest bit, but he lets out an exhale. It’s Black Widow, pace quick as she stalks down the grimy alley. Her back is straight.

She barely acknowledges her teammates — friends, and her gaze locks on his quickly. She gives him a once over, a quirk of her eyebrow when she sees the gauze on his thigh and it almost looks like she’s exasperated, then her lips move.

”Figured you’d need to see a familiar face,” She gazes at Sam with a smirk, “More familiar.”

He huffs, amused, and she turns back, “Stark is the biggest worry wart. He’ll be here in —“

”Wait, you told _Stark_ our location?” Wanda grits out, “Nat!”

Black Widow rolls her eyes, “Tony knew our location this whole time. Besides, if he wanted he could tell Ross, if he wanted. He hasn’t for a reason.”

”It’s _Stark,_ ” Wanda snarls, and even Bucky has a certain look. It’s more wary than the anger that’s in her crease of her brows.

”And Happy Hogan,” Sam supplies helpfully. At her incredulous look, he adds, “What? Happy always trails after Tony.”

“Listen, that’s not what’s important,” Black Widow scowls, “What’s important is getting this kid back home. It has everything to do with getting this kid home.”

”Right, and that requires Stark knowing our location,” Wanda spits back.

”I understand the worry, but trust me, he’s got bigger things to worry about.”

Wanda’s eyes flash red and Sam backs away, eyes blown wide, and then Bucky stands at his full height.

”Listen, let’s not do this,” He says, arm glinting under the pale lights, “It’s already bad enough we’ve been stationary for so long, let’s not rouse Stark further.”

”Bucky, Stark could ruin us further!” Her nostrils flare, “At any given moment.”

”He wouldn’t,” Peter speaks up, chest burning. His head hurts, and there’s something under all the fog, but he can’t let the slander continue.

Wanda scoffs, almost like she was going to tear him apart with pure frustration, and he cuts her off.

”Listen, I - I’m sorry but he wouldn’t. He cares despite the snarky comments —“

”Stark doesn’t care!” She laughs sinisterly, “If Stark cared, where’s he been? Up in that shiny tower while you _suffered_.”

Her words cut threw him sharply and it’s fuel to the fire that burns in his chest, he’s glaring at her and Black Widow looks offended on Tony’s behalf.

He begins to comment, anger laced in his words when his jaw audibly clicks shut. The force behind it leaves her blinking.

Peter can’t stop the scream that rips from his throat and the fire inside lets loose. He feels it in every inch, every ache of his body and his metal arm lurches until his clenched fist connects with his own abdomen.

His nostrils begin to burn and he’s faintly aware of the searing pain somewhere in his mind. Someone grabs at him and he kicks his leg out forcefully, and his breaths are coming in painful gasps, vision white.

It’s not until his vision clears does he slumps against whoever man-handled him into a bear hug. His jaw is still clenched as the pain fades into centered aches. His elbow pops when he extends his arm fully, and two women watch warily. There’s a man with dark eyes pressing a bloody cloth into his thigh.

A metal arm is wrapped around his torso firmly — his chest rising and falling at a rapid pace, heart racing so fast he’s afraid.

Peter’s not too sure why he’s afraid, but the waves of terror are nearly too much to handle. They’re huge waves — they crash into him, toss him around and the biting cold fills his lungs. His mouth is open and he’s mumbling something unintelligible, but the shrill ringing in his ears causes his head to pound and he can’t even fathom what the words could’ve been before they’re lost. 

There’s a metallic taste in his mouth, steady streams of blood the comes from his nose and drip down his chapped lips, and his muscles tense up.

Suddenly there’s light washing over the walls of the alley and the two women go rigid until the one with reddish hair holds up a hand. Their gaze is set upon the car that rolled up.

Peter follows their gaze as two men come rushing down the grimy alley — both dressed similarly in attire, and their shoes slap against the floor. One man continues to advance forward, mouth forming words that fall on deaf ears.

It’s the scent that reaches him first — motor oil. It’s strong and overwhelming, his mouth watering as his stomach rolls with nausea, but it’s achingly familiar. The man continues to advance forward, an onslaught of memories blinking before his eyes.

_“So you wanna look out for the little guy? You wanna do your part? Make the world a better place, all that, right?”_

_”... I’m just trying to break the cycle... “_

_”Did you know I was the only one who believed in you? Everyone else said I was crazy to recruit a fourteen year old kid.”_

_”And if you died.. I feel like that’s on me. I don’t need that on my conscience.”_

_“If you’re nothing without this suit, then you shouldn’t have it.”_

_”I was wrong about you.”_

”T - Tony?” Peter mumbles, soft and unsure in his own words. The man in front of him tears up, his mouth pulling downward, and he looks seconds away from breaking down. His gaze is flitting back and forth from the clunky metal arm to the bionic eye.

“Oh God, _Peter,_ ” Tony says. The man tugs him forward, silent sobs racking his body and they cling onto each other. There’s a pain in his jaw that’s indescribable yet he manages to ignore it for the time being.

A surge of warmth overcomes him — the tension melting from his shoulders and he thinks of home. It’s not complete, his image isn’t quite there yet, but the man he’s clinging too definitely has a spot there.

Tony’s beard is prickly against the skin on his neck, overgrown and tears frame his face as they spill out the corners. His shirt clings to his body as snow begins to fall, onto the streets and small flecks in their hair.

Suddenly he’s reminded of the man who stands off to the side — _Happy Hogan._ He’s staring with a look of disbelief, as if he’s hallucinating and no one can blame him.

When Peter calls his name, _Happy,_ it’s the softest whimper that almost gets trampled by the noise of the city. For a moment it’s silent, stuttering hearts and snow dancing in the wind, then he’s advancing until they’re hugging.

It’s short — awkward enough that Happy pulls back to clear his throat. He does a childish once over again until his eyes land on the metal arm, “Good to have you back kid.”

“May?”

”She’s on her way to the tower — she’s okay. You’re both okay,” Happy says breathlessly.

”We need to get you checked out,” Tony supplies, “All of you.”

Wanda immediately begins to glower, ready to snarl at the billionaire when Sam rolls his eyes.

”We could use a good bed for once,” Bucky quips, “The lumps aren’t good for my back.”

”This is unbelievable!” Wanda nearly cries out, her mouth falling open in shock, “Are you two serious?”

”Kid is still bleeding, Sam’s very much got a sprained wrist, and Nat has a limp — _Ah_! Yes you do,” Tony points his finger at her, “I’m not here to argue, everyone to the tower.”

He turns on his feet, offering a hand to Natasha who rolls her eyes but slips the arm around her, and true to contrary belief she does in fact have a limp.

Wanda stomps after them and for a moment, its just him, Bucky, Sam and Happy left. Bucky suddenly turns to him.

”So Spider-Man?”

Happy blanches and Sam snickers instantly. It’s funny, heart warming after the day’s events and he doesn’t even try to hide it.

Peter nods shyly, the whirring distracts him momentarily until Bucky helps him stand. They don’t mention it again as they travel down to Happy’s car that’s nearly blocking the entire view from the sidewalk. In fact, he’d driven over it in his haste.

Tony’s waiting impatiently, leg bouncing until he catches sight of them. His mouth presses into a firm line at the sight of the Rogues but he doesn’t make comments.

He can’t yet seem to take his eyes off Peter yet, drinking in the blood that coats the kid’s pants, the metal arm in dire need of an upgrade, bionic eye that’s slightly unnerving.

As soon as Bucky attempts to remove his arm, Peter jerks violently. It’s happening — gosh Tony looks _frightened,_ and he’s clenching his jaw so hard he’s afraid he’ll shatter his own teeth.

A few words are sharply exchanged before there’s hands touching his face. Peter bucks wildly, his eyes clenched shut.

” — Damnit Peter look at me!” He opens them with a sharp gasp. It’s Tony, he’s shouting and his eyes are frantically searching his.

Peter whines — it’s scratchy at the base of his throat and he digs his fingers into his neck. He can’t breathe, the fear in his mentor’s glassy eyes so clear it nearly hurts just as much.

His eye hurts and he remembers a scalpel running along the back of his skull, and he’s bleeding and gasping. There’s so much blood, too much and suddenly he’s curled up on the shower floor, a sobbing mess as rivers of red flow down the drain. His body aches.

It feels like he’s been hit by a freight train — a warehouse filled with dust. Blood fills his mouth and he screams, shrill against his own senses and then he’s gasping loudly.

All the energy he previously had drains from his quivering body and he’s falling forward, eyes still blinded by a man with metal wings that flies around him menacingly. He’s not aware of Happy screeching in worry, fumbling for the car keys.

Peter lays across the car seats and his head is cushioned on someone’s lap, a hand on his chest warm and heavy. Maybe he’s hallucinating, or having a panic attack — a voice in his head telling him that he’ll be alright.

The weight of the building threatens to crush him completely and the only thing between is his heaving form. Dust coats the walls of his lungs. He screams from blood and dust, tears in his voice.

He’s terrified, and he’s back in the car. Tony’s gripping his wrist and he’s barking out at Happy to take the corner up ahead.

Natasha is holding his feet in her lap, slightly elevated, and for a moment she has a grimace on her face and her breath comes out in a wheeze.

He hurt her — kicked her, and he immediately tears up. He wants to apologize, but his jaw is locked and rigid. He feels like he’s convulsing, muscle spasms he can’t control. The look on her face is gone as quickly as it came.

Soon enough they’re rolling up to Avengers Tower, an on-call medical team already waiting. Tony makes a quip about Cho always being in town at the right time, and he’s whisked away. His eyes dart around frantically.

As soon as the aches begin to fade, he feels like panicking. Clawing his way up to the surface, breaking free from the medical team that’s surrounding him. He can’t move and that’s what scares him most of all.

_”Mr. Parker, my team and I will take care of you.”_

_”Don’t fight it,”_

_”We’ll fix you right up.”_

Can they? Will they actually? For a moment he allows a childish hope to swell in his chest, then he drifts.

**—**

When the world in front of him clears up after a few blinks, he’s aware of the dim lights overhead. He feels light, half the world completely dark, and he’s lulled softly back to sleep.

**—**

When the world in front of him clears up after a few blinks, the third time around, he’s aware of the restraints on his wrist. One wrist — his metal arm is gone with the wind. He’s not sure if he should explain his desperation for it, the odd connection he feels towards it.

Clarity fills his lungs with each inhale, he’s numb enough to not feel any pain and coherent enough to know, that he’s not alone. There’s three heartbeats off to his right.

As soon as he turns, he locks eyes with a teenager. She instantly smiles, a hint of pitied fascination in her eyes.

”Afternoon Peter,” She says.

Tony and another woman turn quickly, a little less prepared for their patients awakening. The woman smiles, “Hello Peter. I’m Doctor Helen Cho, you’ve had quite the adventure the last couple of weeks.”

And so, the explanation begins. His clunky metal arm considered Tony’s new scrap metal. The teenage girl — Shuri, would design him a new one that would fit his body shape much better and cooperate with his daily activities once he gets back into the roll of things.

As for his bionic eye, she’d design him a new one too. Helen prescribes him with medications he takes, discussions of how quickly he could return to his normal life.

Tony suggests seeing a therapist, and he’s stunned indefinitely when Peter says yes almost instantly.

He wants to go back to his new normal, where May’s coffee mugs litter their apartment and Ned drags him to watch reruns of Star Wars, MJ’s only texting him after midnight because she knows he’s awake.

He’ll need to do a lot. Frequent visits to the Tower, check ins with Shuri, therapy, getting back to health and maybe, just maybe, returning back to school.

Most of all, he’ll need time.

He takes a step back mentally, feeling wiped out from all the back and forth. His muscles are incredibly sore to the point it’s hinting under the pain medication.

They have him on a feeding tube for the time being and they remove the restraints from his left arm, and Shuri sits in the chair beside his bed.

Aunt May gets as close as she can — between her worry over him and the stress from work, she’s in and out. Whenever she is there though, in brief flashes, she kisses the skin above his eyebrow and stares at him like he’ll disappear any second.

Peter can’t blame her, because technically, that’s what happened. The rug was pulled from underneath him. A trap door that waited for him. Cho ups his pain medication until he’s sleeping through most of the day, and when he is awake, he’s puking from nausea.

Shuri takes measurements whenever it’s possible, trying her best to work around his schedule and get everything done as quickly as she can. He tries, but he’s not very coherent until three days later and he’s already been in the medbay for five days.

The Rogues linger all throughout the Tower, Rogers apparently returning from wherever he’d went off to a few days ago. Since then Tony’s been closed off in his lab.

Natasha sneaks in one night after three AM, quietly and a hot mug of coffee in her hands. She had sat on the edge of his bed where her legs swung, and they sat in silence, Peter clutching May’s hand as she slept.

When he wakes that morning, Natasha is nowhere to be seen and Shuri briefly returns to Wakanda to finish her work. Cho explains that she’ll be back within the next twenty four hours.

Peter’s exhausted by the time she’s done explaining, and she smiles and tells him to sleep. He doesn’t need to be told twice.

**—**

“How do you feel?”

Peter pops his neck and his teeth grind together as he thinks. The arm moves smoothly, as it glides through the air he’s able to bend his fingers easily. It doesn’t jerk or lock up. He feels giddy looking at it.

He smiles as he blinks, a new bionic eye stares back at him in his reflection. Helen holds the mirror in front of him and Shuri’s rubbing her hands together.

She reminds him of an evil scientist, except without the evil part.

He clicks his tongue, “Is this the part where I thank you?”

”Yes,” Shuri snorts, and he pulls her into a firm hug. He pulls away, pulls Cho into a hug that leaves her stunned, then he hops on his feet.

”Gosh I can’t wait to tell Ned that I know the Princess of Wakanda!” He cheers, dashing out the lab before Cho could tell him to wait.

Instead he runs into Bucky, an _oof_ exchanged as he rubs his collarbone. Bucky blinks in surprise, his gaze set on the new vibranium arm.

Peter smiles, “Yours is cool and all...”

Bucky rolls his eyes, almost looking like he wants to deck him, but he stops. It’s silent other than Cho muttering exasperatedly in Bruce’s lab.

”Thank you.”

”For what?” Bucky furrows his brows.

”Saving me?” Peter says, but it comes out like a question.

”Oh,” He blinks, “Uh — Don’t mention it.”

”C - Can you teach me? How to use it?” Peter flexes his new arm. Bucky bites his lip, a wary expression dawning his features.

”I’m not sure if I’m the best —“

”Of course you’d be the best!” Peter scoffs indignantly, “Besides, you’d be teaching me a lot so I don’t hurt anyone else.”

Bucky clenches his jaw, different emotions crossing his face until he looks grim. His heart stutters until he finally makes eye contact again.

Peter fiddles with his fingers, worry washing over him, fear that he pissed off the man before him or possibly triggered a memory, but then he laughs breathlessly.

”You seriously think you’d learn somethin’ from me?”

”Of course,” It’s his turn to furrow his eyebrows.

Bucky smiles to himself and begins to walk away, stopping only a few feet away from the elevator. His shoulders are relaxed and he turns back with a smirk.

”Is Spider-Man going to shed the red and blue? Something more fitting?” It’s a dig at his bionic eye, a purple iris because Shuri is odd, and Peter cackles. 

He’s left laughing in the middle of the hallways, bent over and Bucky leaves.

Yeah, they’ll fix him right up in no time.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr is dearparkr
> 
> can someone pls teach me how to link it:((
> 
> leave comments and kudos!


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